


Peel

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 22:50:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16207295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: If you were to peel away the layers of all Arthur's objections to Eames' many attempts to get into his pants over the years, at the core you would find this: Eames had never justasked.





	Peel

**Author's Note:**

> Rubynye, thank you for your succinct yet fertile prompt, 'Arthur/Eames, peel.' This started out cracky and then suddenly took a turn. I don't even know.

 

If you were to peel away the layers of all Arthur's objections to Eames' many attempts to get into his pants over the years, at the core you would find this: Eames had never just _asked_.

Speaking of peeling, Eames was making a huge mess of his orange; Arthur could barely stand to watch. He couldn’t look away. Those nimble fingers surely could do better than this hack job--for god’s sake, the flesh was sticking to the peel, juice was everywhere, he was dripping it all over his shirt. What a pathetic slob, Arthur thought to himself, eyes tracking the juice as it slid down Eames’ stubbled chin.

He flung a fistful of paper napkins left over from his take-out on the desk. They landed on the detritus of the peel. Eames glanced up and said, “Ta,” then lifted a section of orange to his mouth, scraping the pulp from the pith with his teeth. The way his lips followed the wake of his teeth to suck up the drops of juice… Arthur snorted in disgust as he turned away. 

“I should teach you how to peel an orange,” he said, tearing his eyes away as Eames licked sticky residue from the ball of his hand, then down his wrist. 

“I welcome your instruction, Arthur,” Eames said, a sphinxlike smile on his wet lips. “I wager there’s no end to the number of things you could teach me to peel off.”

“I didn’t say off,” Arthur said. His sudden breathlessness didn’t convey the proper amount of annoyance, he felt. 

“Didn’t you?” Eames raised an eyebrow and went back to extracting bits of succulent flesh from the massacred rind. “Must have been my imagination.”

 

***

The next day, Eames sat his desk playing with a banana for the longest time. Every time Arthur would look over, Eames would be holding the damned thing, turning it over in his hands as if he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with it. When he caught Arthur looking, he held it up to his ear and started talking loudly while maintaining eye contact.

“Hello? I require assistance, I seem to have gotten ahold of a fruit with a barrier of some kind and I can’t quite figure out how to get it open.”

Arthur ruthlessly repressed the smile that wanted to destroy all of his credibility with the rest of the team, who were looking on aghast at this display. Eames really was the most unprofessional asshole. They were international dream criminals who did _mind heists_ for fuck’s sake. There was supposed to be a certain gravitas to the enterprise. 

In lieu of responding, and to quell the stares of his colleagues, who seemed to be wondering not whether he would eviscerate Eames but merely what implement he might use, he stalked over and grabbed the banana out of his hand, stripping the peel off in three efficient moves, then holding it out to Eames. 

Eames took it and put the tip of it in his mouth, tongue coming out to touch the point with a flickering caress before taking in as much as he could. He hollowed his cheeks on it, pulling it out with a pop. Arthur commanded his own cheeks to blanch, but they flushed, the traitors.

“Expertly done,” Eames said, regarding the wet length protruding from the peel. “You do know what you’re doing. I shall have to insist that you take over all peeling from now on.”

There were titters, quickly muffled as Arthur turned around. 

“You’re welcome,” he said over his shoulder. 

***

Arthur didn’t lie, as a rule. Not to himself, at any rate. He knew exactly what he was doing when he sent Eames out in the Morroccan sun for a twelve-hour shift to trail the forge target. Eames also seemed to know, as he left his shirt hanging over the back of his chair and left for his mission, wearing nothing but his sleeveless vest and linen trousers. 

The next day, Eames was red over his shoulders and the back of his neck, wincing whenever he moved his arms. Arthur watched him shift uncomfortably. It would take a few more days until this plan could come to fruition, but he could wait.

He’d been waiting for a while now, anyway. 

Two days later, Eames had his shirt back on but his fingers were constantly down the back of it, stroking and scratching.

“Stop that,” Arthur said harshly, drawing curious glances from the chemist and the extractor. 

“Why, are you going to do me the honors,” Eames said irritably. Arthur didn’t reply, but at the end of the day he texted Eames.

_If you need relief, all you need to do is ask._

He left their stuffy office and sauntered down the street in the cool air of twilight. A moment later, his phone chimed.

_Come to mine?_

Arthur went. 

When he entered the room, Eames was already shirtless, laying facedown on the crumpled bed. The room smelled of him, of sunblock and whiskey. His shoulders were a delicious mess. Arthur smirked to himself as he climbed on the bed to give himself access.

“This should be fun for you,” Eames said. “To watch me suffer.”

“To relieve you of your suffering,” Arthur answered, sotto voce, as his fingers delicately picked at the first edge of the tattering, vellum-fine skin. 

Eames sighed as strip after strip came off, lifting to reveal new, pink skin underneath. The pink of health, not damage. It looked painful. Arthur hoped it was. 

“This is to show you that I don’t hold it against you,” he said.

“Don’t hold what against me,” Eames slurred into his pillow.

“That you can’t ask for what you want.” 

When he was done, Arthur smoothed over Eames back, hands barely touching the tender flesh. Eames sighed and said, “There’s one more thing I’d like you to peel for me.”

“I know,” Arthur said, then left.

***

The job went well enough, and Arthur was looking forward to getting out of the heat of Morocco and back to the airy climes of his condo in Montreal. His clothes had been sticking to his skin for weeks and he craved the sensation of cloth sliding softly over his body instead of clinging wetly. 

Eames had fled with the rest of the team as soon as they’d come topside. Arthur picked up the loose ends, peeling away all trace of their presence. He wondered when Eames would finally ask.

***

The answer to that question turned out to be “three weeks later.” 

Eames came to Arthur’s door, drenched in the rain from the thunderstorm. He must have been watching the weather forecasts, Arthur thought to himself as he invited the soaked man in. Eames might not be able to ask for things in conventional ways, he realized, watching Eames step out of his water-logged shoes but keeping everything else on for Arthur to remove. But who cares about conventions? was Arthur's conclusion, as he followed Eames into the dimly lit sanctuary of his studio.


End file.
